My mother is a rabbit.
She ate thistle and it pricked
Right through her intestines on the
Way down. I butchered her, gently,
Exactly like a chicken.
And I braised her in a stock *** with
A mustard sauce. Her meat fell
Off the bone and into hand-rolled
Pasta. I didn't eat her; I loved her too much.
Sprinkled with herbs in her greenery she looked
Peaceful though. And someone found nourishment
In that body not much different than my own.
I didn't cry. I only adjusted my seasoning.*

I'm still not sure what it means to be human except to have a moral compass and no ability to turn it off.